The Given (21 page)

“I gotta finish changing,” Dennis said, nodding at his uniform. He'd removed the shirt, but the utility belt would eventually attract attention from the bar.

“I'll work on these guys.”

“Think they'll talk to you?”

“I got ways to make 'em talk.”

“How Perry Mason of you,” Dennis said, but there was no censure in his voice. Dennis, too, was rockabilly to the core. “You sounded just like Raymond Burr.”

Grif rolled his eyes but put a hand on Dennis's arm before he could leave. “Check the scanners again for word about the old man, too, will ya?”

Worry clouded Dennis's brow. “I'll work on getting the hotel's surveillance videos, too. We can piece together their exit from the casino, maybe get a license plate, but it'll take time.” He jerked his head at the two semiconscious men. “This is our best bet to get Zicaro back quickly.”

Grif nodded and turned back around, and a moment later a giant swath of light cut across the floor as Dennis exited. Then the darkness settled in again. By that time, the bartender had arrived with the three tiki mugs they'd asked for when they'd arrived. Grif had pushed two square tables tight to the two men's bellies to keep them from falling over. The larger one, Larry, was propped between the wall and Eric, making a run at Grif near impossible.

The bartender eyeballed Eric, who had drool pooling at one corner of his mouth, as he set the drinks in front of them.

“Bachelor party,” Grif said, before he could ask.

Straightening, the bartender placed his hands on his hips. “Who's the unlucky man?”

“The little one.”

The bartender nodded at Eric and gripped the ends of the towel he'd flung around his neck. “You the DD?”

No one who actually knew Grif and his penchant for getting lost would appoint him designated driver, but he just nodded. “And the best man.”

“Well, best man, just make sure they don't puke in here. You have no idea how hard that shit is to get out of bamboo.” And he walked away.

Grif had just finished handcuffing each man's right wrist to the table legs—and “blessing” their drinks—when Larry said, “Whas-ha-ma-ha-sha?”

His eyes were watery and fixed on a space between Grif's eyes and hairline, and his breath punctuated his words in all the wrong places. He tried again. “You . . . dead . . . guys.”

Grif yawned. Been there, done that. “I got some questions for you.”

Eric's head whipped up suddenly, and he laughed so hard that he hit the back of his head against the wall when he snorted.

“We know who you are,” Grif continued, tossing their wallets, emptied of IDs, atop the table. “And the police know it by now, too. So I'm going to ask you some questions and . . .”

And Larry—mouth wide, head back—had fallen asleep again. Leaning forward, Grif slapped him once on each cheek. Eric gasped and reached out to stop him, but froze when the table he was cuffed to jerked in front of him. Grif slapped him anyway.

“Now that I have your attention . . . where did Justin take Al Zicaro?”

The two men just stared, but at least Eric had stopped laughing.

“How 'bout this, then . . . who killed Barbara DiMartino?”

Now they both looked away.

Grif sighed and nodded at the tiki mugs in front of them. “Take a sip. Each of you.”

They didn't move.

“I'm not asking.”

Larry tried to meet Grif's stare at that, but his eyes were still pinballing, and his chin still wobbled. He finally slumped and lifted the dark mug with his free hand. Hesitant at first, he drank deeply once he realized there was only rum inside. Seeing it, Eric followed suit and both men looked more relaxed when they sat their mugs back down.

“Now,” Grif said quietly, staring down at Larry's mug. “Who killed Barbara?”

The sound of splintering wood ruptured the air as the tiki mugs stretched. The carved, gaping mouths widened as if giving a great yawn, and then the two mugs began yammering in unison.

“Who cares? She was a bitch of the first degree. I'm just surprised it didn't happen sooner.”

“Yeah. Whoever it was, they have my regards.”

“Oh, shit,” Eric said, using his real voice. And then he passed out.

“You pussy!” Larry jolted as his mug voiced his thoughts, and watched wide-eyed as it swiveled toward Eric's mug, sloshing rum. But Eric's mug had fallen still. With him out cold, it was just a normal tiki mug.

Enjoying himself, Grif winked at Larry. It'd been a while since he'd been able to use this particular celestial trick. “You're very drunk,” he said while they waited for Eric to come around. “You probably won't remember a bit of this in the morning.”

They wouldn't. This was not a true possession. Angels could take over the bodies of people, but not inanimate objects. The mugs weren't sentient, just animated through an ethereal exchange. The men's thoughts had been emptied out in trade for the divine elixir, which was another reason why Grif had chosen Frankie's. Unless he wanted to gain their knowledge by sharing from the same cup, the vessel needed to have a face. A coffee cup, for example, would never work.

“Let's try this again,” Grif said once Eric had recovered, earning a wink from Larry's mug. “This time we'll start with Eric. Do you steal money from the long-term residents at the Sunset Retirement Community?”

“I'm not going to—”

“I've got this one,” said his mug, and made a sound like cracking knuckles before angling Grif's way. “We work in tandem with a few planted employees to extend the lives of . . . certain patients.”

“Shut up!” Eric blurted, not realizing it was his own consciousness talking.

Larry's mug butted in. “For example, we have a couple of hospice workers who know that we're skimming, and the receptionist takes care of them along with taking her own cut, but they're in the dark about the trusts. For that, all you really need is an accountant and a good recruiter. You want to keep the pool small.”

“I'll keep that in mind for the next time I wanna bilk old folks of their savings,” Grif said, glancing up and locking gazes with Larry. “And what do you do?”

“Whatever needs doing,” his mug answered, and Larry gritted his teeth so hard that Grif could hear them grind over the video screens blaring behind him.

“He's the recruiter,” said Eric's mug, wood stretching as he smiled smugly. Teacher's pet. “Who wouldn't trust that face?”

“And Eric?” Grif asked it.

“The accountant. Eric is a computer genius. He's my brother, so that's why we let him in.”

“Goddamn it!” Larry slammed his meaty hand down on the table.

Grif turned his attention back to him. “And have you ever killed anyone in your care, Larry?”

“No.” His headshake was exaggerated, but his eyes were clear. “No way.”

“What he means to say,” his mug elaborated, “is that by the time we're through milking those old-timers dry, they're beyond ready to die. Once the credit cards are maxed out and all revenues of possible income are depleted, the in-house physician returns their medication to normal recommended dosage—”

Eric's mug interrupted. “You mean
reasonable
dosage.”

“And they let go pretty quickly after that,” Larry's mug said. “Most of the time, as soon as someone gains even an iota of awareness of how badly they've deteriorated, they have no desire to go on.”

And now, thought Grif, he had heard it all. There were scams . . . and then there were people who had simply lost every ounce of their humanity.

“Look,” said Eric, palm up, catching Grif's wince. “Most of that cash would end up in government pockets anyway. The families won't ever see it, because they don't know how to look. They have no idea how to exploit the loopholes, and it's not like the IRS is going to point out the missed opportunities. So we file the proper forms on the patient's behalf . . .”

“And keep the difference for yourself.”

“Finders keepers,” Eric's mug sneered.

“It's stealing,” Grif replied, shaking his head at the mug before redirecting his attention toward Eric.

“It's free money,” the man tried, and Grif realized that for some reason he liked Eric the least. He was less physically intimidating than Justin and quieter than Larry, but Grif found his watchfulness unnerving. A man who let others make the big plays, then lunged for the opportunities created by that chaos.

Right now, with Grif's heavy gaze upon him, he shrugged and said, “Hey, man. What would you do?”

Grif leaned forward, forcing Eric to look him in the eye. “I would choose not to be a stain on all of mankind.”

It was an effort to sit back in his seat, and a bigger one to unclench the fist at his side. He forced himself to turn to Larry. “So you use every means possible to extend a patient's life—”

Larry's mug snorted. “Hell, we drug 'em up to their eyeballs and force them to live past their body's capability. It doesn't matter if they're begging to die, or as lonely as shit. As long as they're breathing, they're paying.”

Larry gave an enraged cry and swatted the mug with his free hand. It yelled as it clattered to the floor, and Larry stared at it with a mixture of satisfaction and horror. It was the same way Grif was studying him.

“You guys have no idea what you're really doing,” Grif finally said. He had to work to unclench his jaw. His heart was beating too fast in his chest. How the hell was he supposed to talk about this, to explain it, and still keep his cool? He pushed out a hard breath, trying to empty himself of the anger roiling inside of him. It was getting harder and harder to sit across from these guys. “You are keeping souls trapped in their bodies long after they require release. It's a form of torture, understand? And you're doing it
for
money
.”

Laughter burst out of Larry, harsh and high, and he looked at Grif like he was a kid, some rug rat in need of schooling. “We're torturing them? What about the people who throw them into that place? It's like they're placing their belongings into storage. And why? Because it's more convenient for them to pay for care instead of give it. If they actually gave a shit about their parents or grandparents, then they'd catch the monetary discrepancies, but you know what? Most of them can't even bear to think about it. Their guilt over abandoning the people who raised them keeps them from looking at anything too closely. So if you ask me, they don't deserve to profit from the old.”

“But you do?” Grif said coolly.

Eric's slim jaw just flexed at that. Grif thought again about putting a fist through it, but the bar door opened just then, letting in light cut by a large shadow.

“Let's nail these bastards,” Grif growled, as Dennis reached his side.

K
it retreated from the desk as Ray DiMartino advanced into the room. His sculpted nose and dark eyes were pronounced beneath his still-wet hair, and dimples flashed in his stubble as he clenched his jaw. Although there was no place to hide a weapon beneath his towel, she perched on the armrest of the long leather sofa, a good place from which to access either exit, but kept her gaze trained on Ray as he padded, barefoot, forward.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Ray said, gaze darting over his desk, cataloging its contents, trying to see if anything was missing.

Kit slipped one hand into the right pocket of her skirt and slid her fingers around the .22 weighted there, but didn't pull it out. Her instructor had told her that pointing it at a human being wasn't the same thing as leveling it at a paper target, and he was right. Even contemplating shooting at someone again made her light-headed. Still, seeing the dark look in Ray's eyes, and the way they narrowed while assessing her, she was glad she had the gun with her.

“I have some questions about your dear deceased stepmother, Barbara. And Ray? Don't lie to me this time.”

Ray's expression shifted at Barbara's name, morphing from one of surprise to hatred, with a brief pit stop at anger in between. Kit swallowed hard, unable to hold back her shudder. She had seen the look before—both on the face of a man who'd tried to kill her and in the gaze of a fallen angel. It was pure evil, and it made her uneasy, even though it was meant for a woman who was already dead.

Seeing her shake, Ray smiled and leaned on the edge of his desk, towel gaping. “She's dead. What else is there to say?”

Kit lifted the article about her father, holding it at eye-level in order to study Ray as he studied it. “This was my father, Ray. He was murdered the same day he took a call at your dad's house, fourteen years ago. Pretty amazing coincidence, huh?”

“They happen,” he said unconvincingly.

Except that Ray had this article sitting in his office now, fourteen years later.

Ray looked at her for a long while, and finally said, “I know, okay? I was there.”

Kit's heart thumped. “Was Barbara?”

“Yup. Me, dear ol' dad, his bitch wife, and her cousin.” He scoffed. “One big happy family.”

“Back up.” Kit shook her head. “Cousin?”

“Yeah, you didn't know about her, did you?” He shrugged one shoulder, caught her looking, then rolled them both. Flexing. “Granted, she was quieter than Barbara. Plus she disappeared after the hullabaloo in 1960.”

“Mary Margaret's kidnapping,” Kit murmured. And
that
was the tie to Grif.

Ray nodded absently, but frowned as he cast his mind back in the past. “They were cut from the same cloth, though. Cousins, grifters, chip hustlers, whores. Those two trick-rolled so many men they probably lost count. It's why they came to Vegas in the fifties, you know. At least if my mother was to be believed.”

“Theresa knew them?”